


Armor, Anchor, Lead, and Stone

by McFearo, meanoldauthor



Series: Deserters AU [1]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: AU of authors' other work, Accidental Cuddling, Canon-Typical Violence, During Canon, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Legion-Aligned Courier, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, Strained Friendships, Trust Issues, as in 'they end up Just Friends Maybe' by the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2020-07-19 21:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19980862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McFearo/pseuds/McFearo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/meanoldauthor/pseuds/meanoldauthor
Summary: An ambush, a Chip, and a desert on the edge of war... It's a situation any Mojave Express courier could have wound up in. Unfortunately for Dixie Greene, it was him--and to those who know him better as Damianus, it's a mistake that must be corrected. Quickly.To Marius, meanwhile, it's a chance at a reprieve: Already under suspicion of treason, staying in Dixie's shadow may be his only shot at survival. That is if the Courier, a Legion zealot, isn't out to dig him deeper...Updated 5/6/20 with new and expanded content





	1. Chapter 1

Marius stared up at one of the stalactites—stalagmites? He couldn’t remember—hanging from the roof of the cave. A bead of water had condensed on the end, and he almost leaned forward to watch as it grew over minutes, slowly stretching away from the stone, until it broke free and plopped brightly into a bucket.

This had been his only entertainment for the last two days.

Techatticup was a convenient outpost for the Legion, if not a busy one. A stone’s throw from Nelson, and another from the Colorado River, it made a secure fallback for any Legionaries caught in the open, and a storehouse for whatever goods weren’t needed in Nelson. Including prisoners. He glanced at the gate to his cell, out into the cavern. A pair of NCR troopers were held in the other, but he at least had been given the dignity of not being bound before they locked him up. A few Legionaries milled in the open space, talking among themselves or rummaging through the supplies on the shelves. One or two glanced his way, but didn’t care to comment. Now and then one would mutter something to Vatio, who was looking after him and the troopers. He mostly just shrugged back to whatever they said—minimal effort. It suit him, when he could get away with not even bringing Marius water.

His eyes went back up to the stalactite, waiting for the next drop to form.

What if he had done it? What if he had just run? But he’d frozen, instead, alone on the fringes of their territory, and a patrol had spotted him…

Someone new had wandered into the cave, and Marius watched him from the corner of his eye. A shorter man, in jeans and a red hooded shirt, but held himself like a fighter, sweeping the room with a look before stepping into it. There was a brace on his right leg that didn’t seem to slow him much—an aid, but not first aid. The machete at his hip looked well-worn, well-kept. Marius squinted at his face as he looked over, pretending not to meet his eyes as he noticed him in the cell. He was familiar, faintly; there weren’t many Legionaries with pierced ears. Frumentarius then, in civilian disguise.

He was talking with Vatio, who scoffed at something the newcomer said. His voice was quiet, and Marius pretended not to strain to hear as they spoke. _Deserter,_ he caught from Vatio, and _waiting for orders from the Fort._

Marius rested his head back against the stone. He was probably here to deliver him to Vulpes himself, or maybe Caesar’s Praetorians for interrogation. He looked at him sidelong again—not a large man at all. It wouldn’t take much to overpower him, never mind outrun…

Vatio was nodding, and had a smug grin when he turned. Marius didn’t stand as they approached, didn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him hope. “Your lucky day, Marius,” he said, passing the pack and weapons hanging from the door to the newcomer— _Marius’_ kit, and he bit his tongue. “You have a new lease on life, as slave to Damianus, here.”

He took his time standing, brushing dirt off his tunic—they’d taken his armor when they’d imprisoned him. The other Legionaries in the cave were watching, some just curious, some amused, and he felt humiliation curl in his gut. Marius nodded curtly to Vatio, resisting the urge to wipe the grin off his face, and followed Damianus when he turned to leave.

It wasn’t much before noon outside the mine, and Marius had to shade his eyes. Two days with nothing but torches and lanterns for light had left him half-blind in the sun, and he scuffed his feet and followed Damianus’ footsteps away from the cave. As his eyes adjusted, he glanced back—they were almost out of sight of the lookouts already. Ahead, Damianus had his pack and belt over his shoulder, all it would take was two quick strides to make the grab, and—

The Frumentarius stopped to turn, and Marius froze. Up close, Damianus was fair, darker hair cut to the scalp between no few scars. Light-eyed, but there was a coldness in them that Marius recognized, one that he’d seen in too many Legionaries. He would have been handsome, even, without what looked like a habitual scowl, and an angry, half-healed gash running along one cheek.

Marius stared him down, and Damianus seem to size him up a moment. Marius straightened, lifting his chin and ready to tell him to let him go or get it over with.

So abruptly that Marius flinched, Damianus held out his things. “Call me Dixie, where anyone can hear.” Marius hesitated, sure it was a trick, and Damianus—Dixie—hefted the gear at him. “Dixie Greene.”

He took them, and Damianus turned back up the road without a comment. Marius didn’t move, slowly pulling the pack on. “What is the meaning of this?”

Damianus looked back over his shoulder, no change in his expression. “I’m not your superior, and I’m not your master,” he said. His voice was soft enough that Marius strained to listen, but there was a slur to it too, lisping on the edges. Whatever had happened to his face clearly hadn’t stopped at the skin. “Whatever he said back there. I don’t own you. I’m taking pity on you because you don’t deserve to die for being scared.”

“Pity?” Marius felt himself bristle, but swallowed it down. If Vatio hadn’t told him what he’d been carrying, he didn’t need to know. “Fine, you don’t own me. If you say so.”

He didn’t so much as bat an eye at his tone. “You don’t have to follow me if you don’t want to.”

“And get myself shot in the back? No, I know your type,” Marius said, belatedly noticing Damianus wasn’t carrying a gun—that he could see. “So what do you get out of this? Jerk me around a bit, get a reputation for being a tough guy? Win points with someone in charge when you finally kill me?”

“You watch my back. Do as I do. Prove you’re what the Legion wants.” Damianus waved a hand at the wound on his face as he began to walk, the stitches pulling as he spoke. “Maybe you do the talking, since this still hurts. Someone must find you as charming as you do.”

***

A pack of Vipers tried to jump them on the junction to Highway 95, and paid dearly for it. The little camp they’d set up in the ditch was pathetic, but Damianus wasn’t too proud to check it over for useful scav.

He glanced over his shoulder at Marius, who had trailed behind him sullenly, the whole way from Techatticup. He had said he was Frumentarii, and not much else; even that admission had been grudging. Damianus hadn’t pressed for more. He was probably still shaken, imprisoned by his own brothers and accused of treason. He guessed, at least, as he looked through the shelving the Vipers had dragged into a shed. Some clothes had been thrown over the bottom shelf, and Damianus shook them out just enough to tell they’d fit someone bigger than him, and whistled to get Marius’ attention.

He caught them, checking over the ratty black shirt and stained jeans with distaste, looking like he had something to say—then nodded and turned for one of the other shacks. He wasn’t scared of _him,_ was he? Damianus sighed through his nose, casing the rest of the shelving. It was going to make for a very long journey, if he was.

“So where are we going?”

Damianus glanced over. He could just make out Marius through the warped slats of the next shelter, holding up the jeans with one hand. “Following someone,” he said. The man who’d shot him. He crouched to rummage through an ammunition can—for all he needed ammo himself, but it traded well. The man who’d shot him, who’d stood over him and flashed his gun as he gloated, as the Khans looked on, eager and—

“Damianus. _Where_ are we going, and _who_ are we following?” Marius said, with the distinct irritation of a man who’d repeated himself.

It took a moment to find his voice, one hand still picking listlessly at the loose casings in the box. Marius was frowning down at him, working his hands through the long, laddered sleeves of the shirt. Looking away, Damianus gestured to the wound on his cheek, left from where a bullet had smashed through his jaw, taking a chunk of his tongue with it. “Finding the man who did this.”

“So, revenge,” Marius said, pulling the shirt over his head.

Damianus had to look away again. “He took something, too,” he said, picking out a few rounds to drop in his pack. Slinging it up, he made for the road, still trying not to dwell on the feeling of the stitches in his mouth; at the taste of blood, from time to time.

“So you’re dragging me along for a personal vendetta?” Marius said, several steps behind. “Does that make you a crazed drifter, or a Legionary? Are you even a Frumentarius?”

“Yes,” Damianus said, distracted, not sure what question he was answering. He shook his head a little and clarified, “The package was headed for Caesar.”

The footsteps behind him slowed, stopped. Damianus turned back. Marius was giving him a look of—fear? Surprise?—from where he stood, his machete belt in one hand. Out of the red tunic, he could have been any wastelander, in salvaged clothes, long, sleek black hair tied back—and bronze skin gone ashen as he paled. He fumbled at his machete belt as he swallowed, moving to catch up.

Damianus let him, before heading north. Again, he didn’t press as they walked, watching Marius out of the corner of his eye. He was frowning to himself, slightly haughty features drawn tight with worry. Worry—of what? Of being out of that cell, without orders? Of running into the men who had shot Damianus?

Probably just needed time. He was a Legionary, after all—as much as Damianus, his first duty was to Caesar. He could prove his place again, if he helped him recover the Chip.

And maybe, he thought, faint and forlorn, he would relax enough to at least hold a conversation.

He realized Marius was watching him sidelong, with something suspicion in his eye. Damianus gave a little nod at his machete, the profile of it unfamiliar. Marius put a protective hand on it, as though Damianus might try and snatch it out of the sheath. “It’s mine. My own work. Doesn’t look like Legion issue.”

Damianus nodded encouragingly, curious that a Frumentarius would do his own smithing. But rather than reply, Marius just gave him another wary look, sidling further away as the two of them headed on to Novac.

***

The door to the storage room was malfunctioning.

Marius paced on the catwalk overlooking it. He thought the REPCONN building had been bad enough on the upper levels, swarming with ghouls, but the basement was chock-full of nightkin. The neurotic bastard guarding this room had finally been convinced to leave—after, of course, he and Damianus had risked their necks sneaking past the mutants on a pointless errand—and now the door had jammed. He had probably tried to wedge it shut against the roving nightkin, as if the traps on the lower level weren’t enough, but only managed to damage the mechanism.

He gave it a wary look as the gears ground again, trying to close itself. It stayed open.

Marius turned, tapping his machete against his leg. Damianus was standing at one of the terminals on the wall, leaning back from the screen and squinting. His lips were moving as he read, and he could hear him muttering, “Two—two gross—” rhyming it with _moss_ , “—of devick… devices…”

Maybe throwing himself on the nightkin’s mercy would be preferable.

He sheathed his machete before pushing Damianus aside—he’d seen how fast he was in close quarters. He seemed too surprised to push back, and Marius skimmed the first message. Nothing. He tapped through two more, eyes catching on “use of military hardware against fellow employees”, and the next—

“They’re gone,” he said, shoving the keyboard away. “They got sent here by mistake, so all of the Stealth-Boys were sent back to wherever they came from. Can we _leave_ now?”

There was actual anger on Damianus’ face when he looked over. Marius tensed, but there was a vicious part of him that was satisfied by it—two days stuck with this unreadable little bastard, and he’d finally found a chink in the armor, was starting to see what made him tick.

And for his trouble, Damianus was now drawing a knife.

Marius’ hand drifted to his submachine gun, staring back. Damianus was moving slowly—trying to intimidate him?—but when he attacked it was going to be—

He dodged as Damianus drew back to throw, and there was a roar of pain behind him. Spinning, the stealth field around the nightkin flickered, the throwing knife lodged in the thick muscle of its chest. Marius dove out of the way as a club made from a chunk of concrete slammed down, looking back in time to see Damianus grabbing hold of its cowl, swinging up onto its back as it straightened.

“Squishy pink thing! _Crush_ you!” It was trying to shake him off, reaching back to grab at Damianus. Marius drew his machete and charged, landing a free hit on its body, the stealth field going in and out. The mutant roared, and the club clipped him on the leg as he danced back, and pressed again, hacking at its arms to weaken its grip.

He barely had time to register Damianus getting a leg over the nightkin’s shoulder, leaving his hands free. Another knife flashed, but Damianus lost his mark as the mutant took a backswing at Marius, bowling him over. Drawing his legs up to flip back to his feet, he saw Damianus press the tip of the knife to the back of its neck, and with a sharp blow with the heel of his hand, drove it home.

The nightkin shuddered, hitting the catwalk with enough force to make the whole platform shake. There was a call from below, harsh voices answering. Looking around frantically, Marius spotted a gap between two of the shipping containers. He hissed and waved at Damianus, who was lingering over the mutant’s body. As he pulled something free from the thing’s belt, he disappeared. Marius dove into the gap on his own, having to turn sideways to fit his shoulders through, and stumbled and fell as something hit him, tangling with his feet.

He grabbed on, trying to make sense of the world through the Stealth-Boy’s distortion. He could hear the nightkin stomping around below, the rattle as one of them started up the stairs. Marius resisted the urge to twist around and get more comfortable, bits of gear digging into him—likely the Stealth-Boy stuck between them—and what felt like Damianus’ shoulder jammed into his chest. He felt a hand tapping on his leg, and looked down. His boot was visible, outside the stealth field, and he slowly drew his leg up, until it vanished.

As he did, he realized his lips were pressed against the top of Damianus’ head, his arms wrapped around his body. He had a good view of the tip of one of Damianus’ ears, a few inches from his face, and even in the dark of the basement could see how red it was. Marius nearly squirmed with embarrassment, but could hear the heavy tread of the nightkin outside their hiding place, examining their fallen comrade.

Marius glanced down further, and felt Damianus try and duck his head away, more or less tucking it against his collarbone. Marius winced, certain he could hear his heart pounding in mortification, and tried to pretend his leg wasn’t hooked up over the other man’s waist.

He smelled like soap, he thought inanely. He’d smelled it in the seedy little Novac motel, dozing on the couch while Damianus cleaned up; herbal rather than floral, strong enough to be pleasant but not overpowering—

There was a _snap_ from downstairs, and a cry of pain, a bear trap set off. One of the nightkin on the upper level laughed. “No better than a dum-dum! Pry it off, nothing here.”

“I can’t,” the other whined. The ones on the upper level grumbled to themselves and took their time going to help, clearly intending to teach the trapped one a lesson.

Damianus shifted as they turned for the stairs. His hand, still resting on Marius’ leg, was jerked away, patting down on his back before flinching, finally tucking it between them. He twisted his hips as well, only to stop abruptly.

Marius gritted his teeth. Damianus’ ear was even redder than a moment ago.

The mutants were almost to the door, the injured one still complaining. The stealth field blinked once, twice, and then died completely.

Neither of them could help but look down. Damianus tried to push away, but Marius—he wasn’t pulling him _closer,_ he was _restraining_ him to keep him from panicking—grabbed a fistful of his shirt, trying not to look at where it rode up at his waist. He let go when one of the mutants swore and kicked at the door, and it finally clanked shut.

Damianus nearly exploded out of the gap, helped—he wasn’t kicking him, either, just giving him a helpful shove with his foot—by Marius. He yanked his shirt down, keeping his back to him. Marius faced away as he stood, a little awkwardly, hitching at the waist of his pants before reaching to retie his hair; nervous habit.

He heard Damianus cough a little, as though reminding him he was there. Marius made a noncommittal sound before turning, almost at the same time. Damianus didn’t want to meet his eyes, but when he did, Marius just gave a little nod to the dead nightkin.

“That was sloppy,” Damianus said, reaching to pull his knives free. He was still flushed, the scar on the bridge of his nose standing out pale. “You were supposed to be watching our backs and almost got us killed. Do better.”

Marius clenched his teeth on a reply, sniping at his slow reading, and just reached for where he’d dropped his machete. Hard to argue when he was right.

***

Marius was poking around in the corner of the motel room when Damianus returned. He had scrounged a hot plate from somewhere, and gave him an almost guilty look as Damianus shut the door behind him. “Thought you’d be out longer,” Marius muttered, turning back to the pan.

Damianus gave an appreciative sniff at whatever he was frying, setting his pack down on the end of the bed. “Things wound up pretty straightforward,” he said, trying to see what he was making without looking like he was. “Hopefully we don’t get kicked out, with Jeannie May gone.”

Marius made a noncommittal noise, and Damianus shrugged, flopping back on the bed. The motel room was generously sized, but felt smaller for having someone else in it, tense. It was maddening—any other Legionary would have at least thanked him, for getting him out of trouble. Instead, it was all stubborn silences and suspicious looks. More so, since their mission to REPCONN the other day, which he was relieved that neither of them spoke of.

Even if he wanted an apology for that, too.

He was considering seeing if No-Bark was awake and willing to play a few rounds of Caravan, knowing the old man kept odd hours, when Marius shot him another look. He fished a few fried patties out of the pan, hesitated, and grabbed a second plate, loading it with the rest. Wordlessly, he handed it to Damianus as he passed, sitting cross-legged on the couch.

“Thank you,” Damianus said, trying not to make it too pointed. He paused just long enough to loosen his leg brace and kick his boots off, sitting more comfortably at the head of the bed. There were a few chunks of raw pear on the plate, with the mushy brown spots dug out, alongside three of the little fried things. He nearly burned his mouth on the first one, and had to hold it on his tongue and breathe in to cool it off. But for all the heat, it was _good,_ mantis meat and potato, maybe, and seasonings he couldn’t put his finger on.

He all but inhaled them, lingering on the last bite as long as possible. He waved the plate at Marius a little, before picking at the pear. “Where did you learn to cook?”

Still hunched over on the couch, Marius’ shoulders drew up a little tighter. “Just kind of picked it up,” he said, shortly.

Damianus watched him a moment longer, and went back to his pear when he didn’t go on. It wasn’t quite a full meal—he really must not have planned to share it—but he was hardly going to complain.

More so, because it was the first nice thing Marius had done for him.

He heard Marius take a breath like he was ready to speak, only to let it out silently. Damianus looked over again, eyebrows raised, and Marius grimaced like he’d been caught doing something wrong. “So, Jeannie May,” he started, then paused to have another bite of food, having eaten more slowly than Damianus. When he swallowed, he went on, “That was a Legion bill of sale I pulled out of that safe.”

His voice was scrupulously neutral, and Damianus waited for him to go on. “Yes. I was able to read it,” he said, a little coolly, into the silence.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t. That’s none of my business,” Marius said. “It’s just…interesting you got her killed for it. For working with our side.”

“You and I both know what that woman’s life became after they took her away,” Damianus said, watching him sidelong.

Marius didn’t react, slowly spinning the empty plate between his hands. “Little late to make a difference. Why do you care?”

“Why?” There was nothing on his face, nothing for Damianus to play to. “Because it didn’t need to be done.”

He was looking away now, like the stains on the floor held some secret. “So you think it’s wrong, the way the Legion treats women?”

“It’s…” Damianus narrowed his eyes. This was dangerous ground. Carefully, he said, “We don’t have a choice but to do what we do. It’s just…part of the bigger picture.” Watching him a moment longer, he added, “Jeannie May _chose_ to do that to Carla. All that was, was hate. What we’re doing is making a better world.”

Marius shrugged a little, still not looking at him. In the quiet that followed, Damianus wasn’t sure what else to say, fingers tapping restlessly at his leg. At last, he pointed at the fridge. “You still want a bite of something? I ate half your dinner.”

“Sure,” Marius said, sounding relieved. There was a box of deviled eggs in the back of the fridge—hardly a good follow-up, but enough to share and edible cold. Marius took his half with a murmured thanks, and even if they still didn’t speak, Damianus didn’t think the silence was so strained.

Downing the last of them, Damianus reached over to put his plate on the bedside table, and there was a faint tinkling noise as it knocked over the jar sitting next to the radio. Marius caught it as it fell, and he gave it a shake, the bullets inside rattling. “What are these?”

Damianus pointed, first to his cheek, and then to the other scar on his hairline. “Doc Mitchell dug those out of my head. One from my jaw, and the other in my brain somewhere. I’m still not sure which is which.”

His eyebrows were somewhere around his own hairline as he looked at the jar. “And you kept them.”

“Why not?” Damianus said, taking the jar. He held it up to eye level, tilting it to catch the light from the single bulb above the couch. The lead was dull, the surfaces chipped and flattened in spots from where they’d—

He gave it a little toss, catching it again. “Just a little souvenir from when I paid Death a visit,” he said as he set it aside, with as much bravado as he could manage.

Marius nodded, if hesitantly, his face somewhere between worried and amused. He seemed to catch himself, expression smoothing as he pointed a thumb at the clock on the radio. “Late, huh?”

“Yeah,” Damianus said, looking down to finish unbuckling his brace as Marius headed for the bathroom.

As he worked, he couldn’t help but blow his lips out in a sigh, wishing he knew why this all still felt so awkward.

***

There were a lot of things you weren’t allowed to say in the Legion, at least, if you wanted to live. You obeyed your orders without talking back. You never said the Burned Man’s name. You never hesitated or flinched, and never spoke out of turn.

Marius licked his lips. But Damianus was the only one here to hear, under the noon sun on a Mojave highway. Finally, he said, “I went up a tree so he couldn’t find me, once.”

Damianus snorted. “Cornered me after I’d been pulled from our infantry,” he said. “Gave me a speech about how great the Frumentarii were. All I could do was stand there, and he was enjoying himself far too much. Never have I felt more threatened and also sexually harassed at the same time, and I've spent a week in New Reno."

Marius couldn’t help but shudder. He had yet to meet a Frumentarius who claimed to appreciate Vulpes Inculta’s presence. Many had refused comment, however… As Marius should have. His stomach started to pull itself into a knot—how much of this was Damianus just trying to get him to incriminate himself?

He had killed one of the Novac snipers, the Khan, just for assisting the men who had shot him. Managed to make it look like an accident. That was his response to a personal misdeed, and to a man who had never directly raised a hand to him—what would he do to someone betraying their entire cause?

“…dressed in rags. We assumed they were servants, handing out water and tokens before the battle.” Marius tried to focus, and nodded when Damianus paused. “But their fighters didn’t treat them like slaves. Respectfully, more like leaders, or priestesses.” The word was sadly mangled by his speech impediment, and Marius barely managed to keep his face neutral. “Our centurion all but laughed in my face when I mentioned it. Gave us a chance to prove it, and if we died behind their lines, chasing old women and girls, he would be happy to be rid of us.”

Damianus straightened a little, but played it off with a shrug. “My squad went in alone. Fast. We grabbed the priestesses before they could come to order, the rest of our contubernia surrounding them. Killed two while we retreated, and their warriors threw down their weapons to spare the rest.

“Centurion got credit for it. You know.” Another shrug, damning all superior officers. “But word got back to the Frumentarii; that and a handful of other things I’d managed. That was in ‘75, still as a prime decanus. They made me a veteran a few years later, but have yet to serve as one. I’d be leading a contubernium right now if I weren’t stuck in this weird spy job.”

The last had a note of frustration in it, of wistfulness. Damianus seemed ready to go on, but suddenly ducked his head, assuming a watchful, ear-cocked pose with a slightly sheepish air.

Marius eyed him sidelong, trying to piece together what he was hearing; it was the most he had ever heard him say at once. Damianus outranked him, then, technicality or no. And was a better Legionary to the bone, serving a role he didn’t like without complaint, and competently enough to be recognized by his superiors.

And at the same time, had…some kind of disapproval for how the Legion treated its women; a vague dislike of his superiors. Even admitting that much was rare. He considered just shutting his mouth and keeping his eyes on the horizon, but finally said, “I’ve only ever been a Frumentarius, mostly as a courier. Started back in the Flagstaff Temple.”

Damianus blinked, and nodded. Marius could almost feel him listening.

“We were doing wilderness training,” he said, a little dully. _And how much of this is going back to Caesar?_ “I upset the bully who’d been made our decanus, so I ran off before the rest of them could catch me. I scrounged what I could in the hills, or snuck into camp to steal what they’d gathered. They had the boys on watch and some men out looking for me, but after four days, there wasn’t much left to steal. I turned myself in, and one of the priestesses suggested I train with one of their Frumentarii, for staying hidden so long.” He reached up to rub the back of his neck, where an old, time-stretched wheal ran under his collar, and swallowed down the ill feeling in his gut. “But only _after_ the training master beat me half to death.”

There was a snort from Damianus—not quite a laugh, but Marius couldn’t have been angrier if he had slapped him in the face. His own voice was so low and scathing, he almost didn’t recognize it. “What’s so fucking funny, _sir?”_

He saw his eyes widen, before the cold expression snapped back. Damianus took a step away. “Explains a lot, if you never had to serve with the rest of us,” he said. “Why should the Legion trust anyone who’s never risked his life on the battlefield for his brothers?”

“You only ever risked your life because the Legion wanted to watch you fail,” Marius said. “Short guy with a bad leg? Your superiors just wanted a laugh as you died trying.”

“Funny how you’re the one that failed, and I’m doing just fine,” Damianus said, hands white-knuckled on the straps of his pack. “Try the lisp again. I have time.”

Marius shot him one last look before stepping aside, putting more of the broken highway between them. The silence was oppressive, the only sound coming from sand being whipped over the asphalt. He glanced over again when it started to wear on him, but Damianus turned slightly away, evidently scanning the horizon.

He faced the other way. Something in the air felt sour still. He had been talking freely, for the first time. 

_—So he could pry more information out of you. You can’t trust Damianus, he’s a spy, Caesar’s pet courier. You weren’t wrong, the Legion would have—_

Marius kept his eyes ahead, and couldn’t help but be disgusted with himself.

***

Marius had yet to meet a Viper who was smart enough to live. They had all, unfortunately, been stupid enough to do things like bury a switchblade in his leg.

He took one last scan of the old Poseidon service station, checking the deep evening shadows for movement before slinging his SMG. Damianus was around the building, gone quiet after pursuing another Viper—despite his efforts to mask it, Marius had learned to pick out the click of his leg brace when he walked, and his seemed to be the only set of footsteps. He had a knife in hand as he rounded the corner, searching for any more threats, stopping short when he saw Marius limping towards the shelter of the maintenance bay. Spotting the knife in his leg, he pocketed his own and said, “Shoot.”

Marius put his back to the wall before sliding down to sit, wincing as he kept his injured leg straight. He looked up at Damianus and said flatly, “’Shoot.’”

There was the tiniest flinch in his eyes. They hadn’t spoken since earlier that day, Damianus all but ignoring him, Marius with no easy way to bridge the chill that had come between them. Nor any reason to, he thought mulishly, digging for a dose of bitter drink.

But that little wince, the fact that Damianus let him see it, just made him feel like more of a prick.

He leaned forward for a better look at the knife, and said, almost to himself, “Heck.”

Reaching to drag one of the Viper’s corpses further from the makeshift camp, Damianus paused. “Darn?”

“Gosh.” The knife hadn’t hit bone, as far as Marius could tell. Wasn’t bleeding hard enough to indicate it had hit an artery or anything, either.

Damianus grunted as he dropped the body in the weeds. “Crap.”

The bitter drink almost made Marius gag, and he gave it a moment to go to work before reaching for the knife handle. “Ass.”

A bag of healing powder landed next to him, followed by, “Butt,” in a reproachful tone, as Damianus crouched in the shelter.

Marius nodded, conceding. He put one hand on his thigh, hissing as he gripped the switchblade. _”Fuck!”_ he yelled as he yanked it free.

“Doggone it!” Damianus said, handing him a rag.

He snorted as he pressed it against the wound, the rush of pain leaving him light-headed. “Frick.”

“Frick,” Damianus agreed.

Marius wheezed a short, weak laugh as he looked up at him, about to tell him he could swear if he wanted. But Damianus’ face was already cool, almost suspicious. Marius let the question die as he reached for the healing powder and a roll of bandage. Damianus shifted his weight to leave, but Marius nodded a little, catching his eye, and wiped the knife clean before tossing it to him.

Damianus caught it by the handle, without missing a beat. He seemed uncertain, holding it on his palm, even though Marius had only yesterday caught him putting a butterfly knife through a wince-inducing juggling routine.

He turned back to his leg instead, the healing powder clotting the blood almost on contact, and Marius glanced up as he packed the rag down with the bandage. Damianus had the switchblade out, testing the balance as he headed for what looked like the remains of a campfire outside.

It wasn’t a peace offering, it was just a shitty little knife that Marius didn’t need. Damianus was one of the Legion’s fanatics, a man who would sell Marius out in a heartbeat if he was ordered to. Swearing like a child was probably just one more affectation to lower his guard.

Despite it, Marius still peered after him, and felt oddly gratified to see him balancing it on-end on the tip of a finger.

He let him get the fire going, rummaging through his pack. He didn’t have much for a great meal, but could put something together that would keep them going, if nothing else. Wincing as he walked, he waved a can of Cram at Damianus as he sat on one of the cinder blocks by the bonfire, an offer to cook. Damianus nodded a little, silent, and watched him start to dice up a potato to start frying. After a moment, Damianus took the banana yucca that he had set beside him, cutting it up with a different knife than he used to fight with—or the one Marius had given him, thankfully.

And between them was that awful, sucking silence, as the shadows grew deeper and the sun sank low.

"My leg didn't start breaking down until later, after I was trained and went to war," Damianus said abruptly. Marius leaned away from him a little. The sun was behind him, putting his face in shadow, his expression hidden. “I worked hard to be good enough for the Legion so I wouldn't be a slave my whole life. I _earned_ everything I have. My life isn't a joke."

His voice was hard and flat, at the last, and Marius ducked his head, still holding the can of Cram by the pull tab. “I’m sorry,” he said, quietly. “That wasn’t fair. Or laughing at your voice, you didn’t ask for any of it. I won’t do it again.”

Damianus gave him a steady look, and at last, a nod. Marius nodded back a little, not able to look at him.

Part of him kept whispering that Damianus wasn’t worth his sympathy; he was one more Legionary who was going to turn on him the second he smelled blood. All of his good will was conditional. Any guilt Marius felt was pointless.

And that part of him was very annoyed with the depth of his relief, that Damianus was willing to forgive him.

***

Damianus turned over the lighter. There was still blood in the delicate engraving, from the Khan he’d taken it from—too fine a piece for a raider like him. For the kind of man who would look on in glee as—

He shuddered a little, pocketing it. There was a memory—maybe imagined, maybe not, with everything so broken up—of the man in the checkered coat lighting a cigarette as Damianus woke…

Trudging along beside him, Marius gave him a look. He had been quiet all day, maybe resenting that Damianus had left him outside Boulder City as he went in to ‘negotiate’ the the Khans over their NCR hostages. Or something, whatever made him treat Damianus like a stranger, when they should have been as close as brothers. He couldn’t demand a conversation from him—not without, he suspected, getting his head bitten off.

Which wasn’t fair, he realized, even as he thought it. But still, he would have liked to…just talk.

Neither of them spoke as they headed back for the 188 trading post, the sun sinking. Better to spend the night here, than out in the open; nowhere they had scouted between here and Vegas seemed as secure. That and, as he accepted a second bowl of noodles from the shopkeeper, there might be _some_ conversation to be had.

A lantern was still lit in the underpass, a small figure sitting next to it. The boy didn’t look up as Damianus settled cross-legged a little ways from him, staring contentedly at the random collection of items on a ledge. He didn’t seem to notice him until Damianus held the bowl in front of him, and he took it gratefully. “Thank you, mister,” he said, shuffling to face him. “You don’t have to bring me food all the time, you know. I get plenty of caps, thinking for people.”

“I know you do, but I want to make sure you’re eating,” Damianus said, slurping up his own noodles. “You’re a growing kid.”

“What happened to your voice?” the boy asked. Damianus turned his head to show him, and he gasped. “What happened to your _face?_ It looks like it hurts,” he said, reaching out. Damianus flinched, and the boy drew back. “It _does_ hurt,” he said, subdued. “Not just the skin.”

“It’s fine,” he said, trying to smile. It felt brittle, and for a second, he felt like the boy was looking through him, rather than at him. “Seen anyone interesting lately?” Damianus asked, trying to turn the conversation away.

He adjusted the chin strap on the weathered metal headband he wore. “A few people who asked me to think for them,” he said. Digging into his food with a will, he said around a mouthful, “And a couple I didn’t want to see, so they didn’t.” Finishing before Damianus, and set his bowl aside with a belch. Damianus snickered at him, and he grinned back, a normal kid for a moment. 

Damianus licked the last bit of taste off his fork, watching him. He wasn’t sure, entirely, what the boy was capable of, but had the impression that if he didn’t want to be noticed, he wouldn’t be. Rather than say so, he pointed to an orange rubber ball, sitting in a bassinet. “They’re paying you in junk, still?” he said, a little playfully.

“It’s not junk!” the boy said, picking it up and spinning it between his hands. Eyes a little unfocused, he smiled. “This one feels like… Your heart speeds up, not just because you’re running, but because of the challenge. But not a challenge, not _all_ the way a challenge, because you’re laughing inside too, with everyone else. You want to win, and you want the others to win, at the same time.” He hugged it to his chest, the half-deflated ball deforming under the pressure. “It feels like friends.”

Damianus let him sit like that a moment, still feeling something that Damianus couldn’t—not from a cracked basketball, anyway, even if he knew the feeling from what seemed like a long time ago.

There was laughter from the overpass, and something in it hurt, right then. Rather than dwell on it, he dug in his pocket, passing the boy the lighter. “Does this say anything?”

He set the ball in his lap and took it willingly, turning it over, flicking it open and closed, rolling the flint too slowly to ignite it. Tracing a finger over the gold inlay, he shrugged. “It’s focused,” he said, passing it back. “Whoever made it made a lot just like it, and was kind of bored. You can keep it, it’s still pretty.”

“Yeah.” Not the word Damianus would have used…

“If you want, I could do some thinking for you anyway,” the boy said, setting the ball carefully back in its cradle. “You’ve brought me a hundred caps in food by now.”

Damianus shook his head. “I don’t like that it hurts you.”

“Aw, it’s not so bad. And you never ask me to, so it’s not like I’ve ever had a headache because of you,” he said, sitting a little straighter. “It’s right before my bedtime, so I can just go to sleep and feel better tomorrow.”

He forced another smile. “If there’s anything I need to know, I know how to find it myself.”

“You’ll know it, but is it the truth?” he said, his tone oddly flat and sharp, with that blank look in his eyes again. “And will it be worth the hurt?” He blinked, and folded his arms over his knees, rubbing at one eye. “Sorry. I think there’s a lot of other thinking happening here right now. Did I say something weird?”

“No weirder than usual,” he said. There was the sound of heated conversation above, and Damianus stood, reaching to ruffle the boy’s hair over the headband. He wrinkled his nose. “Get some sleep, okay?”

“You’ll see me later!” the boy said. “Promise!”

“Promise?” Damianus said, turning back as he walked. “You’re the psyker, you tell me!” The boy waved before reaching up to turn his lantern off.

Damianus had his hands in his pockets as he headed up the slope to the trading post proper. There was more laughter from the picnic tables near the traders’ shelter, and he paused halfway across the bridge. Marius was sitting at a table with three NCR troopers, passing a bottle around. He couldn’t help but frown—drinking was hardly suitable for a Legionary—but gave it up with a shrug. He’d earn nothing by ratting him out.

And besides, Marius was actually smiling for once, listening to one of the troopers speak. Sitting with his back to Damianus, he didn’t see him watching, bursting into laughter as the other man finished his story, clapping him on the back.

_So he does know how to have friends._

Damianus shook his head at himself, heading for the trailer. Let him blow off some steam. There was enough hard work for them, tomorrow.

***

Marius sat alone at one of the picnic tables, slouched over his food. They hadn’t spoken much through the day, even once they’d left Boulder. Damianus had just told him to wait outside the ruins, gone in to deal with the Khans, and emerged with nothing but a murmured order to keep scouting the way to Vegas.

It had been the sum total of their interaction all day. The—it wasn’t a _gift,_ godssake, the stupid knife had probably still had some of his blood on it—the knife didn’t seem to have meant much to him. And now he had taken food down to some kid living in the underpass, rather than enlighten him.

He ate automatically, half-watching a few off-duty NCR soldiers heading towards the traders’ shack, from the tent on the other side of the overpass. This was just his life now. Watch Damianus’ back, the thought bitterly, and hope he doesn’t find a reason to put a knife in yours. Do as he does. Don’t ask questions. Follow the letter of the Legion’s laws. Sell your soul to live one more day…

“Rojas? Hey, Rojas! Alex! How you doin’?”

His head came up, looking towards the other tables. The NCR troops had claimed a further one, and one of the men was waving to him. Marius tried forced a smile. “Perez! Warner. Been a while.”

They beckoned him over, and all he could do was pick up his bowl and slide into the space they made for him on the bench. “Reed, this was the guy I was telling you about, Simmons got on his ass about grooming regs when he caught him with that hair under a hat,” Perez said. He was a short, thick-waisted man, with arms as big around as some people’s legs. Marius played up the wince as he punched him on the arm. “So instead of cut it, he just made sure he was never in the same room as him again. Crazy bastard went up a sheer wall to get away from him once.”

“Yeah, hey, let’s see,” Warner said, his own hair pulled into flat rows of braids on his scalp. Marius obliged with a laugh, pulling his ponytail around, straight and black and past his shoulders. “Hell, it’s even longer than it was, you haven’t even touched it!”

A drink was pressed into his hand as they laughed, and the woman with them, Reed, was introduced. “Nah, I’m just one of the guys,” she said, waving off his hand. Her nose had been broken at least once, and there was a heavy boxer’s callus on her knuckles. “Tell me though, they were saying you were from somewhere out near Redding? I’ve got family out there, you ever meet an Edward Reed? My cousin, he was friends with a Rojas.”

“Nah, I was born out there, but my family moved around a lot,” Marius said, taking a casual sip. “Don’t recall the place well.”

She accepted it, and the conversation shifted to news from out West. Marius was content to listen, occasionally offering a bit of outdated information just so it could be corrected.

Gathering intelligence. Undermining these people.

He poured himself another drink.

The sun slipped lower, as did the level of the bottle, until Perez wandered over to purchase another. He could see the strain in all of them as it got darker and they got drunker, the discussion turning back to the Mojave. To all the places the Legion had overrun, on the west of the river. To…

“You got shifted to Nelson, right, Rojas?” Perez said, weaving a little as he raised his head. “Right before it…”

Before the Legion took it. Before he helped them take it. “Yeah,” was all he could manage.

Warner was leaning on the table, rubbing his forehead with a hand. “That’s fucked up, what happened there.”

“Glad you’re alright, though,” Perez said, slapping Marius on the back, a little too jovial. “What happened, man? What’ve you been doing with yourself? You’re not…?”

“No, I…” God, he wasn’t so drunk as to give himself away, but… “I… I got out, after Nelson. Soon as I had the chance. I’ve just been kicking around out here with—” he glanced at the underpass, but there was only one rather lonely figure curled up on a sleeping mat. “Well, wherever Dixie is. Until I get myself figured out.”

Another pat on the back. “The little bald guy?” Reed said, across the table. “He’s in one of the trailers. Should have invited him over, Perez didn’t mention you had Legion sensibilities—”

Warner elbowed her, and Marius flushed. The three of them devolved into bickering about propriety, and all he could do was feel his stomach sink. If only they knew.

But with _Damianus?_

“Look, it doesn’t mean _shit,”_ Reed was saying. “You think the people they nailed up in Nelson are even dead yet? Or just hanging there hoping someone finishes them off before the crows get to their—”

Marius nearly fell, climbing over the bench. He had to stand with his hands over his face a moment—the impression was there and gone, but it was enough to set him shaking—and knowing that could be _him—_

“Shit man, shit, I’m sorry.” He jumped as Perez touched him on the arm. “You alright? I’ll get you some water or something, right, we drank too much…”

He could only shake his head, swallowing and trying to stand straight. “I should… get some sleep,” he managed at last. “It was…” _good to see you,_ drummed in as something Alex Rojas would say, but it wasn’t; he couldn’t, even as a lie.

“You alright, man?” Quieter, torn between guilt and fear. “You wanna… Wanna just sit, we can…”

Marius didn’t fully nod or shake his head, but managed a sort of grimace as he clapped Perez on the shoulder. “I should sleep it off. It’s fine.”

Perez didn’t look convinced, but gave him another pat on the back as he turned. A glance at the other two showed them sitting uncomfortably, and Marius gave them a small wave before heading for the trailers. He leaned on the far side of them a moment, trying to keep breathing, a weight crashing down on his shoulders and heart that threatened to crush him.

 _Coward._ He leaned into the thought, rather than facing the others. _Coward. Would rather run than do your duty. Would rather befriend the enemy than assist your brothers._

The anger hurt, but was a pain that was easier to bear.

_You’ll deserve it when it comes. For now, you have a job to do._

The interior of the trailer was a rusted-out mess, with a faint smell of mildew from the mattresses strewn on the floor. He made out Damianus curled up on one, a few spaces from the door, under a window; defensible and with two exits, of course he’d taken the best one. Marius went to nudge him with a boot, but hesitated, the window at face height. The three NCR troopers were visible from here, and he could pick out words as they spoke.

He looked down. Damianus was looking back up, one eye glittering in the dark.

Marius shoved whatever _that_ emotion was aside, crouching to lean against the far wall. “We need a plan,” he said. “What’s happening? Where are we going next?”

“Vegas,” Damianus said. Marius waited for more, but he just scooted a little further away and closed his eyes.

“That’s not good enough,” Marius said, reaching over to shake him. Damianus’ eyes snapped open, and the knife he had palmed was suddenly visible. Marius sat back. “You’ve said three words today, and not one of them was ‘Vegas’. What did those Khans tell you? What’s in Vegas? I won’t go another day without more information.”

“Then wait for _day,”_ he grumbled. Damianus took a longer look at Marius, and he tried to stop shifting his weight, fidgeting with the ragged cuffs of his shirt. “The man who shot me is in Vegas. He’s a casino manager.”

And turned over, putting his back to Marius.

He almost grabbed him to shake more information from him, but Marius made himself stand. The far end of the trailer felt like a trap, but he’d have his back to a wall if someone came through the door. He laid down, but couldn’t close his eyes. Wait for day—he wanted, _needed_ to be moving _now,_ to be doing something, anything. Anything that kept the dread from catching up.

He looked across the trailer. Damianus had turned over again, facing the door.

Damianus was keeping things from him. Obviously, but to stop and think it in so many words made it real. And he knew what Marius feared, that his loyalty to the Legion would only hold as long as that fear did. So he dragged him along as… A servant? A fall guy, when things got rough?

Something worse, that he couldn’t even figure?

If he started walking now, Damianus would probably find him in Vegas. If he started running now, Damianus would probably find him anyway.

Instead, he put a hand over his eyes and tried to find something to drive out the memories trying to surface, a meditation or creed that would give him some measure of focus.

None came.


	2. Chapter 2

“You really did a number on yourself this time. What on earth happened?” Julie Farkas said, dropping the stitch into the basin. Damianus opened his mouth to reply, and just as quickly, she was reaching with tweezers and scissors towards his face again. “Hold still, there’s only a few left.”

He did, staring out of the tent and trying to ignore her work. Old Mormon Fort was every bit as overworked as he remembered, if not more so. They had hired more guards, loitering at a sandbag barricade by the gate, and one of them had struck up a conversation with Marius. He had a hand up to shade the afternoon sun, and a slight, pleasant smile on as he talked—that faded as he looked at Damianus, who quickly let his eyes settle past him, on the far wall, pretending he hadn’t noticed.

“There, last one,” Julie said, setting her tools aside. “Open wide.” Dixie obediently let her shine a light in his mouth, opening and closing his jaw until she was satisfied. “It looks good, alignment is better than I expected. You had it wired shut a while, you said? Whoever set it did good work,” she added, before he could say anything. “I’m glad you actually let us treat you this time, Dixie. You had a bruise down your entire arm when you were through last, if I recall, I was sure you’d broken something.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” he said, trying to remember. A scuffle with some raider, maybe; he picked up defensive bruises on his arms from time to time that would ache for days. But the fact that she had remembered, had cared…

“We don’t have any specialists here, but Doctor Usanagi at our clinic out by Crimson has training in speech therapy,” Julie said, setting her tools in another basin. “She’s a real renaissance woman, she could help you with that lisp.”

“I wouldn’t have the time,” he said, a little sadly. She just wanted to help him, but... He swallowed the feeling down, picking up his pack. “Here, I know I already paid, but I can give you these.”

Julie sighed, but willingly took the stimpaks from him. “You know if you’d used these yourself, you could have had those stitches out a week ago.”

“You need them more. And it didn’t hurt to be patient,” he said, shrugging. A lie, but better than telling her the Legion forbid it. Even passing as a civilian, he wasn’t going to fall into the trap of quick fixes and growing dependent on them. “Is there anything else I could help you with?”

“I’m the one supposed to ask that,” she said with a tired smile. Her rather impressive mohawk had started to wilt in the heat of the tent, adding to her weary expression. “But…”

He listened to her request, to find two of her Followers who had gone astray. He nodded as he stood, letting Marius fall in off his shoulder as he headed for the gate. They were two steps onto the road before Marius said, “I didn’t know that.”

Marius’ voice had been quiet, and his face was neutral, sober, when Damianus looked back. “Didn’t know what?” he asked.

He shrugged a little, looking away. “How bad your face was. I mean—” He wiped a hand down his own face. “Not like you have a bad face, but—I meant your—”

He watched him stutter, fascinated, until he trailed off, muttering something that sounded like “just didn’t think about it.” Damianus waited a moment longer, making sure he was done, before saying, a little brusquely, “You never asked.”

Marius drew back a little, and Damianus braced himself. But all Marius did was look at the scar again, and away, up the filthy Freeside street. Taking a breath to speak, he looked down at a skittering sound, only to yelp and kick out. The rat squealed as it tumbled away, zipping off as soon as it had its feet under it.

A pair of children trotted up, breathless. “Come on, it was right there,” the girl said, doubled over to pant. “You couldn’t catch it for us?”

“Wicked scar!” the boy said, pointing to Damianus cheek. “Got any food for us today?”

“Hello to you, too. I’m doing fine, thanks,” Damianus said wryly, glad for an excuse to look away from Marius. “And what, I’m the only person who feeds you now?”

“Yes,” the boy said, and pressed his hands together under his chin, smiling. “And could you find it in your hearts to give us enough caps for one meager meal, kind sir…”

The girl kicked him on the ankle, and looked directly at Damianus. “You said we could always ask you for food.”

“Yes, you can. I don’t have much on me, but I have caps. Find someone who’s selling,” he said, waving them away. The kids ran off up the street, and Damianus headed after them at a much slower pace.

“So we’re doing _this,_ now?”

He didn’t look back at Marius this time. “You want them to go hungry?”

Marius made a frustrated sound. “I want to know what we’re doing next. Are we ever getting to the Strip?”

“We will when we’re ready,” he said, trying to keep his voice reasonable. “For now, we want local favor on our side. The Kings should be our next stop, they’ll know where these Followers are.”

There was another sigh behind him, but no more argument as Marius trailed behind.

***

The two of them stood in the street, outside the King’s School of Impersonation. Marius didn’t look over at him, and Damianus said nothing for a moment.

Standing listless with his head slightly cocked, Rex whined and halfheartedly wagged his tail.

All Marius wanted to do was go rub his ears, but felt himself say, “Are we really going to waste our time on—”

“We’re being trusted by the closest thing to the leader of this slum,” Damianus said, shortly. “The King is influential. We need him on our side.”

He let the objection drop. Rex was looking at the two of them hopefully. Damianus gestured for him to follow as he turned, and the dog hesitated as Marius hung back. Shooting a look to make sure Damianus wasn’t watching, Marius dropped to a knee. He dug his fingers into Rex’s ruff, and his tail wagged with a little more vigor as he scratched up under his jaw. The fluid in the cyberdog’s brain case looked cloudy and half-gelled, and while Marius wasn’t sure what a healthy brain should look like, he was pretty sure that wasn’t it.

“We’re gonna make you better,” he said, rubbing his ears. Rex panted. “Come on, boy.”

He followed willingly, as they picked through the slum. Damianus had a point about them needing allies here, and he could probably use the Kings to further the Legion’s goals, quietly, but the Followers? He seemed familiar enough with them, chatting with their head doctor—a woman of science, who had expected Damianus to shun. There was something going on there he couldn’t see, that Damianus was loath to tell him. ‘Nervous’ didn’t even begin to cover his feelings, especially when he knew Caesar’s concerns with the Followers in particular.

But now, his options were obey Damianus, or get handed back to the Legion for his trouble.

Freeside was a rough, unpleasant place, and even if Marius was glad to be rid of him a while, he missed having someone watching his back. Searching the places the Kings had pointed them to, Marius almost believed there was a god willing to burn a world like this, to purge the petty evils and corruption, and to make way for something new. It felt especially true after walking in on the second couple of the day having sex in an alley.

“’Go find the drunkard,’” Marius said as he headed for the next street. The headache he’d woken up with at 188 hadn’t been missed. “’Maybe you’ll learn something.’”

There were enough drunks and junkies to pick through, Marius spent most of the day asking after for the man the Followers wanted. He was eventually pointed to a tumbledown building around evening, and he nearly kicked the man who reached out of a shadow to tug on his pant leg. “You got any liquor on you, man? I’m dying here…”

“Bill Ronte?” Marius asked, a little wearily. Of course he was the grabby one.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” he said, with a look that managed to be both weary and manic. “You got anything to drink? Or seen Dixon around? He said he’d be back, but I’m starting to get the shakes.”

“You won’t be seeing Dixon again,” Marius said, crouching out of his reach. Ronte moaned and winged, and Marius cut him off. “Chems are for the weak—”

“For the weak, oh, yes sir, aren’t you smart, Mr. Sober,” Ronte said, almost spitting with bitterness. “You deal with the shit I have and see if you don’t need something to drown it out. Now I just feel like I’m gonna die if I don’t get my fix…”

Marius took a breath as the drunk grumbled to himself. He looked pathetic, honestly, and Dixon had been as crooked as any chem dealer could be. He sat cross-legged, waiting for Ronte to settle. It was hard to feel sympathy for someone whose breath smelled like paint thinner, but Marius tried, keeping his voice concerned as he spread his hands. “You’re right, Bill. I don’t know what you’ve been through. But you know, you have people depending on you still. Julie Farkas sent me to bring you back to the Followers.”

“Oh, Julie…” Marius let him go, reminiscing. The man was almost in tears, talking about a pat on the back and a few kind words. Pathetic really was the word, wasn’t it, that he valued something so inconsequential, so pointless. Marius had endured far worse with less praise. That these profligates thought they has suffered, compared to—

Fucking hell, he wasn’t _jealous_ of this old, haggard drunk.

Ronte looked thoroughly miserable as he finished talking, and Marius plastered his sympathetic face back on. “They need your help, Bill. Your friends, Julie… They miss you, and want you back. They can help you, too.”

He was silent a moment, staring at the ground. “I really screwed up, huh,” he said, voice soft. Marius waited, and stood as Ronte shifted to stand. “I’ll just…go over to the fort and get some rest. This has gone on long enough.”

Marius let him go, staggering a little as he walked. He stayed a few yards back from him, warning off any of Freeside’s ever-present thugs from taking advantage of his state. He let him go through the gate of the Old Mormon Fort on his own, raising an eyebrow at a figure digging through his pack. Rex sat next to him, watching intently in case a treat was produced, but looked over and wagged at Marius as he neared.

Damianus looked up, frowning more than usual. “I need all your Fixer.”

“I thought I was the one who drank now,” Marius said. Damianus’ expression didn’t change, but Marius sighed and slung his backpack down. He tossed the tin to him, rattling only faintly. “They trade well,” he said, when Damianus caught them. He waved at a junkie slumped against the fort wall, retching into the gutter. “Especially out here.”

He flicked it open, and poured the tablets into his own tin. “I need more.”

“Thought we were saving up for that credit check,” Marius said, falling in beside him as they walked. “We’re already low, with you buying food for those kids.”

“They were hunting rats,” Damianus said, and if Marius didn’t know better, he would say he sounded defensive. “And we weren’t close to two thousand caps anyway.”

“What’s wrong with rat, _I’ll_ eat rat,” Marius muttered, falling back a little. He could have almost counted the children’s ribs. Even Damianus seemed to see the objection was a token one.

***

Damianus stuck his head back under the water pump, swiping at the bloodied water running off his face. It wasn’t his, fortunately—they had goaded some of the Kings into attacking an NCR outpost, handing out supplies to the Western squatters in the slum. It was a petty victory, all told, but anything that made life a little harder for the NCR was worthwhile.

The King manning the pump was giving him a look as he straightened. His shirt was soaked, as much with water as blood, and he stripped it off to rinse as he took one last dunk, getting blood off his chest. The King coughed. “So, uh…” Damianus looked up, and he flashed a grin. “You guys staying around here?”

“We have a camp staked out,” he said, using the back of the shirt, still dry, to mop water off himself.

“You know, we could put you up at the School a while, the King probably wouldn’t mind. You don’t have to call in that favor for it, either, it’d be on us,” the King said. Damianus, wringing water from the cord of his necklace, realized he was still looking at him, not unappreciative. He pretended not to notice—or to flush—as he went on, “There’s a couple private rooms, upstairs.”

“That’s not a problem. But thank you,” he said, not encouraging the attention—or discouraging it, honestly. Looking at the edge of the open lot, he spotted Marius sitting on the bumper of a truck with Rex at his side. A few more Kings were loitering beside him, patting one another on the back as he sat there, wiping listlessly at the blood on his hands. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything,” he said to the King, leaving the water pump behind.

“We’re managing,” he heard Marius say to the Kings standing around him. His voice was flat and tired, in a way Damianus hadn’t heard in him yet. “All we want is a bit of trust from your people, and everyone else in Freeside.”

“Oh, yeah, we can arrange that,” another King said. “Taking down those soldier boys? The guys will be lining up to shake your hands, and the girls are gonna be throwing themselves at your feet.”

Marius’ eyes flicked to Damianus as the Kings left, and just as quickly were back on his hands, scrubbing at the blood that had collected around a fingernail. Damianus let him sit, rolling up the red shirt to clean off later, and finding a ragged black tank top in his pack to pull on. Rex had put his chin on Marius’ knee, and Damianus frowned as he reached to stroke his ears. Marius’ hand was shaking.

“What’s next?” Marius said, his voice steady, but exhausted. “There’s those guys who are selling fake passports. If they’ve heard we’re close to the King now, they should be willing to deal.”

Damianus tipped his head, considering. The Strip was an unknown still, and there was no way of saying how confronting the casino manager, Benny, would play out, or if they’d need to fall back here. His eyes went to Rex as he thought, and Marius abruptly drew his hand away, folding his arms to hide the tremor in them. Damianus looked away and blamed his shiver on the angle of sun, putting him in shadow. “Not quite yet. We don’t know what will happen on the Strip, I would rather we had a better foothold here. More support, if we need it.”

Marius sighed. There was an edge in his voice as he asked, “Who’s left? _Everyone_ in Freeside knows our faces, not like that makes me nervous or anything.”

He was still hunched on himself, arms folded, one leg bouncing irritably. Damianus couldn’t think of when he’d seen him this upset—but this had been their first brush with the NCR directly. Aside from meeting with people he had seemed to be friends with…

Damianus had to take a breath. “If you don’t want to be here, leave,” he said, voice a little rougher than he liked. He felt hollow in his guts. “I have a mission to complete here, but I won’t make you do anything you’re scared of.”

He meant it, as he had from the start. Marius was still his own man, and if it meant Damianus had to face all this alone, so be it. He’d only ever tried to do right by him, whether he’d seen it or not.

It was still the wrong thing to say.

Marius stood, slowly, still fighting to keep his hands still. “We already know who’s the better Legionary,” he said, his voice low. “But be careful who you call a coward when you won’t even move on Benny with the Strip right in front of us.”

Damianus almost stopped, explained, _that’s not what he meant—_ But with Marius looming over him, he just dug in his feet, staring back, not giving an inch. Every other bully he’d met in the Legion was standing in front of him, waiting for the smallest sign of weakness. Trying to make Damianus _prove_ himself, one more pointless time, full of wordless threats that would land twice as hard if he flinched.

He was furious—at himself, at Marius—and sick of it, sick that after everything, it was coming from _him._

He realized how long they had stood, motionless, each waiting for the other to act. But Marius made no move to leave, evidently determined to make Damianus’ life as miserable as possible. Finally, Damianus reached for his pack, the motion just enough to make Marius flinch. “How many caps do you have?”

“Few hundred,” Marius said, narrowing his eyes. “Why?”

Damianus had his pack in hand, digging through it. He tossed a pouch at Marius, who had to step back to catch it. He didn’t look at him as he said, “Go to Mick and Ralph’s, then. See if they’ll cooperate, if you’re so sure. Take Rex with you.”

He set his jaw tighter, but after a moment, asked, “Why Rex?”

 _Because I don’t want to look at either of you._ “Prove the King trusts you,” he said instead, shouldering his pack. There was silence behind him as Marius watched him leave. Maybe he’d do it and buy their way onto the Strip. Maybe he would just take the caps and run.

And maybe it would be better if he did.

***

Their evenings in Freeside were spent in a half-fallen building, one more set of squatters trying to feed off of Vegas’ scraps. Rex was the only thing that might have given them away, but sick and listless as he was, he seemed happy enough to lay out of sight in return for food. Marius laid the forged Strip passport where he could see it as he emptied his backpack, finally turning it inside out. One of the straps was pulling loose, and he searched his things for a repair kit before sitting back, cross-legged, to patch it back on.

Rex did wander off eventually, to the lower level. Marius didn’t bother calling him back—he wasn’t sure what kind of business a cyberdog needed to do, but would rather it was done away from where he planned to sleep. The sun tilted towards the horizon, and he built up the start of a fire in a tire rim, in preparation for night. By the time he finished sewing, it was dark enough that he considered lighting it. Damianus should have been back already.

He wasn’t worried about him, no. Why should he be? Maybe he had gotten the hint that Marius didn’t want him around, and had gone ahead to the Strip himself.

And maybe walked into another ambush, and gotten himself killed.

“Good riddance,” he muttered to himself. “One less Legionary.”

The words echoed a little against the rough walls around him. Marius hunched his shoulders and started repacking his backpack. Halfway through, he paused.

“…talk, and I don’t know what will set…”

Dithering a second between a gun and a blade, he leaned to peer through a hole in the floor. Damianus was sitting almost nose-to-nose with Rex, scratching at his neck. The dog leaned into it, and his eyes unfocused as he started to thump his back leg.

Damianus laughed. It was just a quick, quiet chuckle, but Marius felt almost embarrassed for having heard it, and looked away from the gap. He got the fire lit and waited, testing the edge of his machete, considered stripping his SMG even though he’d only cleaned it the other day. Anything to make a little noise, announce where he was and…

And what?

Give him the passport, clearly. Marius nodded. Show he’d done as he was ordered—asked—whatever, and…

And _what?_

Damianus took his sweet time downstairs, and Marius heard papers being shuffled, though he refused to look. He was making a third check of his machete belt for spots to oil before he heard footsteps, and kept his head down, trying to look busier than he was. Rex preceded him up, and Marius barely nodded to Damianus as he took that habitual scan of the room for threats. Marius pointed when he hesitated at the top of the stairs. “Passport’s in the pouch,” he said, not looking up. “You’ll need to sign where it says. I talked him down to half, five hundred for two. Didn’t have to touch yours.”

Damianus sat slowly, across from him. Marius saw him nod, but he said nothing. “I ate already, but that’s whatever they’re passing off as iguana here. Figured you might not have the caps on you to buy something.” No response. “Pretty sure it’s not human.”

There. Overture made. He could make of it what he liked.

He stayed put, at least, reaching for one of the skewers leaning over the fire. Still not looking up, Marius finished packing his things, left out for something to do.

“I think it’s rat.”

Marius felt his hackles go up, looking sharply at Damianus, who sat eating unconcernedly. Rex had laid down close enough to look soulfully up a him, soundly ignoring Marius.

He let a breath out, slow, setting his pack beside him. Hadn’t meant anything by it. Probably. “So what’s our plan?”

“What’s yours?” Damianus said. Marius looked sharply at him, and he just waved a hand at the campfire and the passport.

He shoved the things in his backpack around just to keep his hands busy, for an excuse not to look at him. “You…weren’t trying to insult me down there,” he muttered, and realized he sounded like a sulking child. With a sigh, he shoved the pack aside and focused at a point around Damianus’ left ear. “I overreacted. I shouldn’t have…” He’d squared up as Marius loomed over him, instinctively ready to fight—or defend himself. “I don’t think anything _scares_ you, but I shouldn’t have…done that. I’m sorry.”

Damianus chewed more thoughtfully a moment, pausing to pull a canteen off of his backpack. “You think I don’t get scared?”

Marius shrugged as he sat back, wrapping an arm around one knee. “I don’t know. You haven’t shown it, if you were.”

He had meant it as a complement; Damianus, the Legionary’s Legionary, should have prided himself on being fearless, untouchable. Damianus, who…

Had had to fight for everything the Legion gave him, even as he hinted at disliking some its tenets. And now he just looked lonely, on the other side of the fire.

Marius looked away as he ate, unable to shake the feeling that he was missing something. As he finished, Damianus said, “We have what we need to enter the Strip. I have a handful of loose ends to see to before we’re secure to do so. Tomorrow night.”

“Night?” Marius said, keeping his voice neutral.

“I found a source. Benny walks a circuit of the Tops’ casino floor each night,” Damianus said. He passed a burnt bit of meat to the dog, who took it delicately. “Our best hope is to pin him down on the way to somewhere more private. Fewer witnesses.”

“Then we’ll do that.”

Damianus actually stared at him a moment, before reaching for the other skewer. Marius rested his chin on his knee, staring through the broken wall to the Freeside street, traffic picking up with the twilight becoming true night. The silence kept stretching, and he shifted where he sat, trying to think of what to say next.

“He upsets Julie,” Damianus said, with a tip of the head towards Rex. “Is why I had you take him. That she can’t fix him.”

“He’s a good dog,” Marius said. Said dog, laying with his head between his sprawled forelegs, blinked up at both of them. “Have you looked at the paint on his side?”

“Yes.” Damianus reached for it, and Rex wagged a little. “Hard to believe Caesar’s own cyberdog would come back to the Legion. Do you know where he was lost, to be found again in the Mojave?”

Marius pulled both legs up to loop his arms around them, ankles crossed. “Southern Utah, I think. Returning from Colorado, they followed part of the Long 15. I recall there were still some tribes there willing to fight. If a salvager brought him to the King…”

“To lose him on the 15 would make sense,” Damianus finished. He reached out to ruffle his ears. “You’ve traveled far, boy. Denver to the Mojave, and who knows where before then.”

Rex rolled onto his side, pawing at the air until Damianus rubbed his belly, and sighed with his eyes half-closed. Marius didn’t realize he was smiling until Damianus glanced up at him, and quickly away.

Marius schooled his expression, and said, “And there’s a doctor in Jacobstown who might help him? That’s in the mountains, if I recall.”

“A ways out,” Damianus said. He seemed to stop and think, and offered more slowly, “Hearing about it, it reminds me of Cloudcroft. In New Mexico. I was too young to remember it, but we were close enough to White Sands that I was raised there.”

Marius only half-looked at him. It wasn’t technically disallowed, discussing where a Legionary was from, but it made him uneasy when he didn’t know where the line was these days. “I’ve been through there,” was all he said. Not enough to keep him talking—was it? Should he be encouraging this? Was he trying to force him to misstep?

He found, as he listened to Damianus talk, that he was willing to find out.

“The mountains were up on the plateau, high enough that it snowed some winters. We had a snowball fight outside Ruidoso, once,” Damianus was saying. “All of us had built fortifications, and spent the rest of the day trying to knock one another’s down.” He wasn’t quite smiling, but seemed a little lost as he gestured, describing the scene. “I look forward to seeing Jacobstown, if it is anything similar. I miss the snow.”

There was a nostalgic look on his face, staring past the fire. For a moment, he hadn’t killed a man in cold blood for aiding his attempted murderers. He hadn’t pitted local tribes against the NCR. He hadn’t spent the last weeks cozying up to his enemies to better stab them in the back. He just looked like a normal, homesick young man.

Marius realized Damianus was looking at him now, waiting. He looked away and shrugged. “I’m not really from anywhere.” _Stop there, stop there, you’re just handing him knives—_ “Our tribe only had a small territory, and traveled year-round.”

There. Enough. There was an ache in his chest that he furiously pushed away—fear, at digging his own grave?

The look on Damianus’ face was, as usual, a variant on his perpetual frown. “Do you remember it?”

Ah. There was the test. “Not well,” he lied. Half-lied; they were a child’s memories, soft-edged and distant, and broken further with images of giants in red and black. But now and then, something would catch his eye, a scent would stop him cold... “My old tribe was taken somewhere in Utah,” he said. Easier to look at the fire than at Dixie—than at Damianus. “I must have been… seven or eight? Not yet ten, my brother was…” He trailed off at the thought, turned away from the regret.

Finally, he just shook his head. “I was too young to remember much. I was sent to the Flagstaff temple for a couple years. Shadowed other Frumentarii after that, for the most part.”

There was a sort of yearning in Damianus’ voice as he asked, “Your family?”

“Dead, or close enough.” He shook his head again, folding his arms more tightly over his legs. “They don’t matter.”

The fire was starting to burn out, but he didn’t care to prod at it. It didn’t matter, what had happened back then. This was his life _now,_ and—

“You can be weak if you want.”

Marius forced himself to take one breath, a second, before he could say, “You think I’m weak?”

 _There_ was the Damianus he knew, with a flinty look in his eyes as he said, “My mistake, I must have blinked when you proved you weren’t.”

He stared over the embers at him. Damianus stared back, cold and unreadable. Deliberately so, he realized, as his temper cooled. “What do you want from me?” he said, more quietly. “You want to see me be weak? Have something to report to your superiors?”

Damianus opened his mouth, ready to say something—only to press his lips thin and look away.

“Or do you want me to be weak for _your_ sake?” Marius grabbed his things as he stood, and couldn’t face Damianus as he said, “I’m sorry.” He paused at the top of the stairs, and could barely get the words out, “I’ve been an ass.”

There were a few ragged pallets on the floor below. He dropped his pack on the foot of one as he sat, rubbing at his face. Missing something. He had been missing something, alright.

It had been like watching a door slam, after the wince at his own words; Damianus rather than Dixie, or perhaps the other way around. Maybe he _was_ trying to help him, to gain the Legion’s trust again. But at the same time that would be to damn him, to doom him.

He hated the Legionary, sitting on the floor above. But he thought he quite liked the young man who liked dogs and talked wistfully about snow.

***


	3. Chapter 3

Marius turned over the counterfeit passport. Having never seen an official one, he couldn’t say if the forgery was accurate, but it was all he had to go on. His own face stared up at him, a little uncomfortably—or rather, Alex Rojas’ face did. There was still a chance some NCR on the Strip might recognize him.

He slipped it into his pocket before patting down his gear one more time, a light jacket over his shirt, looking out at the street. The Strip gate was visible from the mouth of the alley, a cluster of NCR civilians laughing as they passed through, one of several—evening traffic was picking up, the sky above already dark, the stars washed to nothing with the lights behind the wall. He took a breath to steady his nerves. This would make or break his—both of their—futures, finding Benny and the Chip or not.

Damianus stepped up beside him, his own preparations complete. He settled his backpack more comfortably, and Marius waited. He was getting the hang of the pauses as he thought through what he was going to say.

But whatever Marius was expecting, it wasn’t: “I need you to know, I don’t want you here if you resent me. I said once I’m not your jailer. You can leave, if you want.”

Marius stared at him. Damianus kept his eyes on the Strip gate, expression neutral. Was this a trap, or…?

“Where will I go?” he managed at last.

“Anywhere. Doesn’t matter.” Damianus shrugged. “It’s probably better I don’t know. But if you hate me, there’s no need to be here.”

“Hate you?” The words were out before Marius really registered them, and he saw Damianus tense, ducking his head like he was bracing himself for whatever came next.

_It’s a trick. He’s a frumentarius and playing you like everyone else he’s crossed paths with._

Marius wiped a hand down his face, looking away. Frumentarius, maybe, but not _that_ good an actor—he just looked scared. Of Marius.

 _He’d fed children from his own pocket and helped drunks out of the gutter. He’s tried to help_ you.

“I don’t hate you,” he said, not looking at him. He rubbed his face again, and sighed. “This is enemy territory. If I left, it would be my fault if you got hurt,” Marius said, heading for the gate. “God knows I haven’t been useful to you yet. I can at least help you get that Chip back.”

 _You are an_ idiot.

He let Damianus take the lead. The Securitron at the gate entrance oriented on them, the cartoonish face on its screen flickering as it called, “Halt there, visitors. Present your documentation or submit to a credit check.”

Damianus offered his passport without a word, and Marius held his breath as the machine took it. No obvious scanner activated, it had no eyes to watch as it read it. It stayed wholly immobile, until—

“Credentials accepted. Enjoy your stay on the Strip.”

Marius had his ready as Damianus moved on, waiting for him closer to the gate. He tried not to wrinkle his nose at the machine, smelling of grease and ozone at this range. But it found no objection to the passport, handing it back and waving him ahead. Damianus nodded as the motors on the gate started to whir, and Marius returned it, discreetly. Light spilled out from the Strip beyond, and he almost rolled his eyes at the drama of it, even as he eagerly stepped forward. This place was, after all, symbolic of the worst excesses of the Old World.

Too bad it was also breathtaking.

Some of the signs and buildings had been visible from Freeside, even the tallest structures remarkably intact, vividly colored with neon thrown up from below. He felt his steps falter as he stared, the edges of the buildings all gilt in twinkling lights. Music that had sounded tinny from the slums was louder here, fuller, each facade contributing something different to the din. People moved in masses here, loitering outside the casinos, or stumbling in drunken groups across the street, some trying to sing along to the music and largely failing.

He and Damianus were jostled forward by the next group coming in, and Damianus caught his pack to keep from being swept away in the crowd. He pointed ahead to the sign for the Tops, his voice lost in the crush, but Marius nodded and followed the flow of people.

They detoured, swinging to the right, some of the men in the group whistling and catcalling. Still overwhelmed by it all, Marius’ attention wandered, looking to where they were headed—one of the buildings with a flaming sign above the entrance. Beside him, Damianus stumbled, a larger man clipping his bad leg as he shoved past. Marius caught his arm, looking up to stare daggers at him, and froze.

There was an empty space between the crowd and the building, with women dancing in it. Definitely women. They wanted the crowd to know they were women, and very attractive ones at that. Straightening himself out, Damianus had stepped into the gap, his face going from fury to alarm as one of the dancers stepped closer. “Not a fan of crowds? Well, that’s the Strip for you, sweetie,” she said, running a hand along his jaw. His expression shifted to panic. “I know a nice, quiet spot where I can take your mind off things.”

Marius barely held back a laugh. Damianus didn’t seem to know where to run, the crowd behind him a solid wall, his hands up as a physical barrier against the woman in front of him. Marius finally took pity and pulled him away. “He’s shy,” he said, and meant to add more, but she was dancing again, stretching her arms up over her head. He was sure she was wearing what qualified more as clothes elsewhere, but there were very small pieces of tape involved as well, and it was hard to think of much else.

She winked at him. “You should have said so,” she said, stroking a hand down her throat and across her—just barely rolling up a corner of the tape. “If your boyfriend’s shy, he can watch for a discount.”

“I—uh, he’s my, uh—I’m—watch?” The image in his head was getting in the way of forming a sentence. Someone was tugging on his arm, and he let himself be pulled away. Damianus was making for an empty space in the middle of the street, and didn’t let go until they were out of the crush. He glanced back to make sure Marius was there, blushing visibly despite the uneven neon lights, and Marius found it very difficult to look him in the face.

Damianus cleared his throat. “The Tops is past the—”

“We should get to the—” Marius started at the same time. Without making eye contact, he nodded, following his lead.

There were another set of gates, unguarded, blocking off the next portion of the Strip. The Tops was beyond it, a marquee of red and yellow overhanging the doors. Damianus led the way in, and Marius made himself focus. This was it. This was where they’d worked to be, for days—a distraction now could get them both killed.

It was quieter here, at least, even with the dull roar of the casino beyond the entrance. There were a handful of Chairmen at the desk ahead, and Marius let Damianus intercept their greeter as he turned to case the rest of the room. A couple other Chairmen lingered near the walls, jackets unbuttoned, and likely with concealed weapons under them. A few well-heeled couples were crossing to and from the doors, a few troopers chatting by the casino entrance. He kept an eye on them as they entered, and in the crowd beyond, Marius caught a flash of a black-and-white, checkered jacket.

Ahead of him, Damianus was handing the greeter a small knife and a 9mm pistol—taken off a junkie stupid enough to try and jump them on a Freeside street. Another was poking through his backpack with practiced efficiency. Damianus raised his arms as a third Chairman moved to pat him down. He made it to his waist and one leg, but stopped short on the other. “Metal. You trying to smuggle something in here? Roll up your pant leg.”

Damianus hung his head a little, and slowly pulled up the baggy leg of his jeans. His leg brace was lashed to his boot with a few mismatched belts, the leg itself wrapped with strips of cloth here and there to keep it from rubbing, the whole rig clearly well broken in. He had managed to summon up a blush as he mumbled, “I’m weak on that side.”

The Chairman doing the search hesitated, and said. “I’m gonna have to ask you to—”

The greeter coughed and glowered at him, and made a swiping gesture that managed to both wave Damianus ahead and indicate a desire to hit his subordinate. The one doing the pat-down made a cursory check of Damianus’ body and nodded, stepping aside.

The greeter pasted on a greasy smile and handed him his pack. “You’re golden, kid, sorry for the trouble. Enjoy your stay at the Tops.”

Marius’ turn. He tried not to give the greeter a dirty look as he handed over his SMG and pack. “And where are you keeping these?”

“Locked up safe, don’t you worry. We’ll have them for you on your way out,” the Chairman said, and gestured for the other one to begin, legs first. Marius stared him down as he did, and ground his teeth when he found the brass knuckles in his pocket.

“Oh, good try, my young friend,” the greeter said, taking them from security. “But we’re running a peaceable establishment here, no weapons.”

Marius made a false start after them, and they both tensed. “You expect me to just walk around unarmed?”

“No safer place on the Strip, baby. I promise you—”

“You already humiliated _him_ over a bad leg, and now I—”

Damianus had a hand to his face. “Alex, we talked about this…”

“Look, look, come on.” The greeter glanced at the line forming behind them. He reached into his coat. “This your first time on the Strip? Yeah? Tell you what, the Chairmen ain’t here to make that a bad time. We are, in fact, here to give you the Tops!” He said it with another artificial grin, but Marius let himself settle. “Show of good faith, here’s a few chips to get you started. There’s any trouble in there, tough guy, you leave it to the Chairmen sort it out, and your things will be safe as houses until you get back. You take a load off tonight, yeah?”

Marius took the chips and his pack with bad grace, but followed Damianus out to the casino floor. He pulled the backpack on gingerly, and leaned to murmur to him, “Spotted him headed to the right.”

Damianus nodded, and they meandered that way, trying to move with general foot traffic rather than a straight line. There was a lowered pit in this wing of the building, full of tables and gamblers, and leaning on a railing overlooking it all…

Marius stepped aside and leaned against the wall beside a row of slot machines, facing Benny. Damianus stood across from him, facing away—no way to know if Benny would recognize him. He scanned the casino over Marius’ shoulder and murmured, “There’s a man on every corner.”

Marius grinned, as though Damianus had told a joke, and leaned closer to say, “A couple circling the pit, and two more sticking with him. Openly armed.”

He took a couple of the chips Marius offered, and automatically started running one over and under his fingers. “Outnumbered.”

“Very.” Marius looked out over the casino with what he hoped was an amiable expression. “Bad time of night to avoid collateral damage.”

Damianus almost scowled, but held it back as a group of gamblers wandered past, all holding drinks. “It’s when we knew he’d be here.”

They broke off to wander separately, Damianus to get the layout of the rest of the building, Marius staying near the tables to keep an eye on Benny. He seemed content to watch the crowd, occasionally turning to one of his bodyguards or striking up a conversation with a patron. Marius tried to stay hidden in the crowd, even wandering into the pit to cheer and groan along with the onlookers as chips changed hands. But he never really engaged with it, keeping Benny in the corner of his eye, and after about fifteen minutes, a glance showed one of the bodyguards frowning at him.

He pretended not to notice, watching another two hands of blackjack play out before circulating back to the casino’s main hall. Damianus was talking with one of the Chairmen, who was all smiles as he walked away. “He’s not moving and his heavies are catching on,” Marius said, following Damianus toward a flight of stairs.

“Then don’t be so obvious.” They stopped in the shadow between the stairs and wall, and Damianus stayed facing the room. “We need to make a move, otherwise we’re standing here another two hours while they get more suspicious.”

“What, just walk up and demand the Chip?” Marius said, but after a moment, made a conceding gesture. “They won’t draw on us down here. They want to keep their image.”

Damianus nodded. “I might talk him into going somewhere more quiet.” He frowned harder at Marius’ expression. “Do you have a better idea?”

He could only shake his head. “We won’t pull the same trick with security twice,” he said. “I’ll hang back.”

They took the same roundabout, indirect path back to the casino pit, not drawing the attention of the lingering staff. Marius slowed as Damianus approached the railing, one of Benny’s bodyguards letting a hand rest on the butt of a revolver. Benny looked over at the motion, going a greenish color under his tan as he caught sight of Damianus.

A few of the other casino staff noticed, and Marius kept an eye on the rest of the room. They had an image to maintain, after all—suddenly throwing the building into chaos would be a last resort. But a few of the idle Chairmen drifted closer, diffidently interested in the group by the railing, and putting themselves between the two of them and the doors.

He couldn’t hear Damianus at all over the crowd, and Benny wasn’t much better. Marius stayed where he was rather than lean in to listen, the bodyguard with the revolver closer than he liked. He sneered down at Marius, who looked coolly back. He let a hand swing ever so slightly towards a pocket, and the chance of a concealed weapon, and felt a little vindictive pleasure as the Chairman tensed.

“Look, I can’t just let you in on this out in the open.” Marius snuck a glance back at Benny. He was still sweaty and scanning the room for an exit, but had regained a bit of composure, leaning back on the rail and gesturing grandly—to all the civilians present. He said something more quietly, and Damianus nodded, but reluctantly, and accepted the key that Benny passed him.

“I’ll knock back another cocktail or two, catch my breath,” he said loudly, with a forced laugh. “I’ll meet you two cats in the Presidential suite. We’ll talk this out like men.”

The bodyguards stepped back to let them through, clearing a path to the other side of the room. Marius caught up with Damianus, leaning to hiss in his ear, “It’s a—”

“I know it’s a trap!” Damianus kept walking, unhurried. “But it’s a trap he’s barely had time to set. Whatever he throws at us, we can handle it.”

He looked back at Benny, watching them go. “And the Chip?”

“I don’t know if he has it on him.” The door to the suite opened directly to the casino floor, and Damianus paused at it, turning over the key. “But he’ll want to be here. To gloat, if nothing else.”

The door cut off the sound of the casino behind them, soundproofed. The suite was vast, the entry alone large enough to hold two pool tables and a bar, with several entrances to other rooms. It was utterly silent as well, making the hairs on the back of Marius’ neck stand up as he reached under his shirt. “Are you _sure?”_

Damianus was leaning on one of the pool tables, pulling knives free that had been stowed against the inside of his leg brace. He paused, tucking them back through his belt in easy reach. “Just don’t say ‘I told you so’.”

Marius finally managed to free his machete, the sheath bound tight to his back. He retied it to his waist, mouth open to speak, when an intercom by the door crackled. “Hey baby, over here.”

They stared at each other a moment. Standing closer, Marius jammed a thumb on the button. “You’re a cheating bastard, Benny.”

“Oh, the quiet one. I should be honored.” He sounded almost amused. “Getting outplayed and getting cheated ain't the same thing, and neither of you were ever in my league. Enjoy the suite while you can. The cleaners will knock twice.”

Damianus straightened, waving Marius closer. He put his shoulder to the edge of the table, and between the two of them heaved it onto its side with a massive crack. There was a click at the door, and the sound of hushed voices.

Benny’s goons closed the doors behind them before opening fire, the pool table slates shattering, shreds of green felt raining across the floor. From behind the bar, Marius watched one of them strafe around, shotgun raised, before stopping short. “They’re not—”

There was a gurgle from the one closest to the door, dropping with his throat cut, his back to the planter Damianus had hidden behind. Marius saw the flash of Damianus drawing a throwing knife as he vaulted the bar, hitting the nearest man before he could register the mistake.

The one with the shogun turned, and Marius dodged as he fired. There was a cry of pain behind him—in a voice with a sort of hollow lisp to it, but there wasn’t time to turn. Marius dove as the Chairman cycled the gun, knocking it aside, two blows of the machete putting him down for good.

He spun to make sure the fourth was dealt with, and only Damianus was standing, trying to hold pressure on a wound. The shotgun had winged him on the upper arm and shoulder; not fatal, but bloody. Marius hauled a jacket off one of the dead men and tossed it to him. “Here, I have a—”

The intercom crackled. “Hey, Smokes, what’s the situation?” They both paused, looking at the panel. “Smokes? You wrapped it up? Swank’ll get wind of what’s going on soon, I need that suite open.”

Packing the coat against his arm, Damianus pressed the intercom button. “Where are those cleaners? Real mess down here, four bodies.”

A pause, filled with the crackle of static. “What the fuck…?”

“You can’t hide from us forever, Benny.”

“I beg to differ, kid.” Marius could almost hear Benny sweating. “Alright, I might be skipping town because of you _now_ … But we’ll settle up, you wait and see.”

The speaker cut out. Marius took a step towards the bar for his pack, still watching the panel. “Let me get you—”

“We need to find Benny,” Damianus said shortly. “He has a suite on the thirteenth floor, but—”

Marius grabbed him by the sleeve as he reached for the door. “We go out there looking like this, the whole casino will panic. Clean up first, I have a stimpak—”

“And you want me to use it?” he snapped, shaking free. “Bitter drink, healing powder, Hydra, yes—We’re still _Legionaries,_ in case you forgot, Marius, and there are laws we _must follow.”_

He stared at him, bleeding and angry and—

_—playing the zealot because he’s humiliated and it’s all he has—_

—too fucking stupid to live.

“Deal with it yourself, then,” Marius said, headed for the bar again. There was a stack of towels behind it, and he cleaned the blood off himself and his weapon as well as he could. The jacket was a mess, and he tied it around his waist, hiding the machete sheath but keeping it in reach—hopefully they could slip past the front desk, but there was probably an exit somewhere else…

Damianus was finishing wrapping a bandage as he stood. Marius threw the last clean towels onto the intact pool table before leaning on the bar to wait. “So do we just walk out of here, or do we have another plan?”

Scrubbing blood off his arms, Damianus seemed to physically bite back his first comment. “I would _love_ to hear what you have in mind,” he said tightly, dropping the towel on the floor. “If you have a plan that doesn’t leave us captured by our own side and in line for crucifixion, I’m all ears.”

It was like someone had dropped ice down his back. Damianus glowered at him, until Marius finally said, “We know the exit, out front.”

“As long as we don’t draw attention to ourselves,” Damianus said, a little cooler. He waved a little to the intercom as he passed it. “Their security chief isn’t in the loop.”

The Tops was even fuller when they left, music pouring out of the theater, people standing in crowds three deep. It made their exit even faster, hiding their movement from the watching Chairmen as they made a beeline for the atrium. The front desk was swamped, and the one handing back confiscated items barely gave them a second glance before sending them on their way.

Marius almost relaxed, out of the crowd, but the relatively open Strip made him automatically turn and scan for threats. There was less street traffic now, people having settled on a venue for the night, but enough people surrounding them that any one could be hiding a weapon, could take a shot before they tracked where it had come from—

Looking over his shoulder, Marius nearly ran into Damianus’ back. A man dressed as a gambler was standing in front of him—standing, not wandering to stare at the lights of the Strip, or pausing to chat with someone else. Marius let him get ahead, approaching the man, who eyed them coldly. “The eyes of Caesar never left you.”

And Damianus just said evenly, “No, sir. Nothing escapes his notice.”

Marius froze, almost ducking to hide behind Dixie, only barely steeling himself as Vulpes Inculta stared coolly at the two of them.

“You were given a chance to correct your mistake, Damianus,” Vulpes Inculta said. His eyes rested briefly on Marius, before going back to Damianus, looking levelly ahead. “A rare opportunity. Were you able to recover the Chip? Or should we have put someone more… faithful to the task?” The rest of the Strip seemed too quiet in the second that followed, where neither of them moved. Vulpes raised a hand when Damianus drew a breath to speak. “You silence is damning enough. Our informants saw Benny outside the Strip minutes ago, fleeing.”

“We will track him down immediately,” Damianus said, shifting his weight to move. “Sir, if we—”

“That is not necessary. Describe the Chip.”

Damianus barely hesitated. “A large silver-colored poker chip,” he said, circling his fingers to demonstrate. “Both sides are styled to resemble a roulette wheel, with dots and dashes on an inner ring. Each set is different, I took rubbings of them. The front has the emblem of the Lucky 38—”

“Good.” Vulpes gave no sign of actual approval, but Damianus let his hands drop, waiting. “If it were my decision, no further opportunities would be extended to you. You have failed Caesar twice—” he could see Damianus’ shoulders draw up tight, “—but our Lord has plans that require you, and you are ordered to an audience with him at Fortification Hill.”

He reached into his coat, pulling out a leather cord with a silver token hanging from it. “Why he has bestowed his Mark upon you is not for me to question. But you have been away a long time, Damianus. It will identify you to our people, and any… indiscretions made in your travels West have hereby been forgotten.” He said it with another sidelong look at Marius, whose mouth was too dry to swallow. “You will join us at the Fort as soon as practicality allows.”

“Yes, sir.” Damianus’ voice was barely audible as he took the token. Vulpes touched a genteel hand to the brim of his hat and stepped back, melting into the crowd.

The two of them stared down at the Mark, the bull stamped on it catching the Strip’s neon glow. Damianus closed his hand over it before winding up the cord and stuffing it deep into a pocket. Marius couldn’t look at him as he turned for the Strip gate, feeling he was being led to an execution.

He felt hollow in his chest. Likely he was.

His own.

***

Marius sat on the motel couch, head tipped back to stare at the ceiling. Water was still running in the bathroom as Damianus showered. A streak of sunlight was creeping across the far wall, the sun broken over the hills—they hadn’t rested, coming here from the Strip.

He was alone. He could just grab his things and run, and have a full day to get a head start. Nothing was stopping him. But looking down at his pack, he couldn’t bring himself to move. _If Damianus went to the Fort alone, he would be—_

No. God no, he couldn’t think like that.

_If they caught him running a second time, there would be no hope for him at all._

Marius nodded to himself. Damianus was… he _had_ to believe he was a lost cause, if he still intended to jump at Caesar’s call. Dying a zealot would probably bring him more peace than doubting, at the end. And Marius…

He was dead, anyway. He tried to find comfort in the cold finality of it, but his stomach was churning, hands shaking as he pulled his still-damp hair back. Maybe if he _did_ run, he could get the chance to die fighting instead of—

His stomach heaved, and Marius clenched his teeth. There were tears in his eyes, but he couldn’t see the crumbling motel room, just broken bodies on crosses, men he knew, strangers, tribals and slaves, NCR—

Ones he’d put there. Ones he’d left begging to die.

The water stopped. Marius wiped his face and composed himself as Damianus finished stirring about in the bathroom. Marius had his things arranged and ready to leave by the time he stepped into the living area, a waft of soap smell following him. Damianus gave him a slightly longer look than necessary, at him and his things. His head was even freshly shaved—he’d taken his time to prepare. For his own peace of mind? To look more the Legionary?

To give Marius a head start?

Damianus leaned on the wall as he limped over to the bed, his leg brace resting on the foot of it, rather than bring it into the damp bathroom. Marius didn’t watch him as he buckled it on, counting cracks in the ceiling again. He didn’t even look down when Damianus stood, pulling on his backpack.

His things were right there, in obvious, easy reach. He’d clearly planned to leave with him.

But now, Marius couldn’t move.

“If you’ve made up your mind not to run,” Damianus said, voice even, neutral, “man up and do it. We have orders. We have a _duty.”_

“We had a duty to kill Benny last night.” The words were out unbidden, but Marius didn’t care to stop them. He was shaking with the fear in him, grasping at straws—if he could make Damianus realize— “How did _manning up_ serve you then? You think the Legion—”

“Better than your taunting me!” he snapped. Marius started. There was color in Damianus’ cheeks, lips pulling back in a snarl. “What is it with you? I pulled you from that fucking cell just to have you sneer and backbite every chance you get. I saved your fucking life!”

“So here we are,” Marius staid, not standing. His chest hurt, his heart sinking. There would be no getting through to him after all, and he tried not to bare his teeth. “This is the real you, the mask off? And all you wanted was me to grovel and be grateful that you were, what, just going to get me killed somewhere else?”

“Is that what you think of me?” Damianus’ hands were shaking, fists clenched. “ I _gave you chances._ Chances to leave, chances to do _better_ —I gave you so many fucking chances, and all you did was drag _both_ of us down. Of _course_ you don't know who I am, all you cared to try and learn was what breaks me.”

“Why _should_ I have cared?” Marius said, spreading his hands as he leaned forward. “You’ve told me jack shit about what your plans are! About what you want of me! Has all I’ve been doing is sit in your back pocket as a quick way to redeem yourself—turn in a traitor to Caesar, and oh, all hail the zealot Damianus, be all his sins forgiven! Is that your plan now?”

“No! I never—”

“And let me guess, the lonely act was just to get my guard down, get me to talk,” Marius snarled, too gone in anger to care if Damianus pulled away. “I _bled_ for you, you son of a bitch, and now I get to sit back and watch you pin Benny’s escape on me?”

“Is that your assessment?” Damianus hissed back. “You spent so long testing me, and all you have to show is your _own_ colors—One more bully, coming after me for my height or my leg or the way I talked. And you—”

Marius finally stood, backing away from him. “You would have done the same!”

“I wouldn’t have!” His voice broke with the volume of it, red-faced and spit flying. “If you had me released from that cell, I would have had some basic fucking _gratitude!”_

Marius drew a breath to shout back, but paused. He would have. And he wouldn’t have had a moment’s hesitation to treat him—another Legionary—like a brother. But looking at Damianus, staring back at him, waiting for a response, he wasn’t a Legionary.

Just a scared young man that he had been cruel to.

When he made no move to go on, Damianus straightened, resolute. “I told you, all I fucking wanted was to watch your back and have you watch mine. I was giving you a second chance! One no other man in the Legion might have. I was trying to save your life, and now…” His mouth twisted, voice dropping. “I only put up with it because I’ve heard it all before, your knives were already blunted. I thought you might come around. But I guess it wasn’t worth trusting someone after all.

“I’ve told you so many times that you’re free, that you never had to follow me if you didn’t want to. What does it take to make you understand that?” Damianus said. Marius could have sworn there were tears in his eyes as he dug in a pocket, and didn’t move except to catch the motel key, automatically, when Damianus flung it at his chest.

“I don’t care what you do. Where you go.” Damianus opened the door, facing away. His voice was rough, low, but with no less venom as he said, “But I won’t be coming back.”

The door slammed behind him. Marius stared at it, clutching the key.

It was that simple?

 _Of course it was._ Marius rubbed at his face, smoothing his hair back. Of course it was. For all he had served the Legion, Damianus had never once lied, had he? Shaking his head, he reached for his pack, settling it and his weapons with practiced ease. That was it, then. That was it, and…

And what?

He let his hand slide off the doorknob. He _should_ run. This wasn’t a test, wasn’t Damianus going to tattle on him to someone in charge. And if Vulpes had followed them to the Strip, no doubt his men knew about Novac…

_He’s a liar, an assassin, a spy—you can’t…_

_You can be weak if you want._

Marius stared down at the key, rooted in place

***

Damianus swiped at his face again, angry, as he walked away from Novac. It was a stupid thing to get upset over—Marius, with all the gratitude of a spoiled child, had made his stand. He had chosen to abandon Damianus, instead of—of…

He grabbed the straps of his backpack, yanking it up higher as he walked. It was for the better. He hadn’t been able to bring him back into the Legion’s good graces, but he could keep him from getting killed. That had been the goal from the start, hadn’t it? Keep another Legionary safe, put his feet back on the right path.

Nothing to do with the yawning, lonely place in Damianus’ chest, or him walking to his own execution alone.

He gritted his teeth, stepping over the cracks in the highway. _It’s better this way,_ he kept repeating, over and over. If anything, he should have given up sooner, with all Marius’ snappishness and constant testing. He should have ordered him to leave, if he was going to be so difficult. Let him desert, if he was so scared, even if the thought of trying to escape the Legion made Damianus pale.

The thought was unbidden, and his boot scuffed on the pavement as he walked. It didn’t make any _sense_. He would have been safer to stay where he belonged. Why run, unless…?

He thought of his face, teeth bared and furious, giving way to confusion and worry. He _had_ been scared, hadn’t he? Scared that Damianus was going to turn him in—not that he _would_ have, he had no reason to see a fellow Legionary killed, even if he had been abandoning their cause.

But had he ever _told_ Marius that? He racked his brains for the times they had spoken—had he ever bothered to explain what his plans were to him?

Damianus kept up a steady, automatic trudge south, watching the landscape around him without seeing. Had he only ever followed him out of fear? Spent weeks waiting for Damianus to finally turn on him? And at the end, all he could do was snarl like a dog backed into a corner, showing its teeth more to frighten than to threaten.

He slowed, the morning sun beating down. He had friends in the NCR, hadn’t he? People he cared for, might have even defected to? And Damianus had pointed him at more of them and assumed he would kill an enemy without compunction, as any Legionary would.

How would have Damianus have felt, if someone had ordered him to kill another Legionary?

Walking again, he shook his head. He wold have done it without question. Orders were orders.

And what did that say about him? About how much Marius _should_ have trusted him?

There was the sound of boots on the highway behind him, and Damianus shaded his eyes to look back. A black-haired figure in a ratty canvas jacket was slowing from a jog to a walk, with that slightly bowed look of someone catching their breath. He turned away as Marius started running again—but walked more slowly. He couldn’t run fast enough to get away from him, but he sure wasn’t standing there getting a sunburn while he caught up.

And when he did, he would say… What?

He waited until he could hear Marius panting behind him, turning to watch as he slowed one last time. He fought to keep his composure even as he gulped air and resettled his machete belt, but his face was still drawn when he came to a stop, just beyond arms’ reach. He licked his lips, and Damianus saw his throat work for a long moment before he swallowed and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

Damianus searched his face, waiting for him to go on. When he didn’t, he shook his head. “You meant enough of it.”

Marius’ face fell. Damianus grimaced and turned south, shooting a glance back when he heard Marius falling into step. He should leave. He _had_ to leave, or else it was all for nothing. Damianus tried to find a way to say it, to find some way to phrase it so Marius would trust him, when he’d taken nothing Damianus said at face value, simply for…being who he was.

He realized they were looking at each other again, both at a loss for words. The rest of their trip continued like that, silent except for their footsteps, staring at the other like a stranger, only to break off and go back to stealing glances. As they reached a split in the road, the last on the way to Cottonwood, Damianus looked over to see Marius drawing himself up like he meant to speak—only to look ahead and go pale.

Damianus followed his gaze. There were crosses lining the pass to Cottonwood. Ravens fluttered at the corpses, NCR and civilian, and among them a lone Legionary. Realizing Marius was several steps behind, Damianus turned back.

Marius stood rooted, staring at the bodies wide-eyed and lost, looking like he was ready to be sick.

“I didn’t want that to happen to you,” Damianus said, quietly. Marius focused on him, some of the terror leaving his face, and Damianus took a breath. “And I won’t let it. You can leave.”

Marius stared back a long moment, before he managed to say, “And what about you?”

Damianus shrugged, looking at the ground. Everything felt heavy, suddenly. “I have to answer for my failure.”

“You can come with me. Run. Desert.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and when they did, he looked sharply at Marius. He was looking back, still in fear—but with defiance in it, his choice made.

And Damianus… Marius might have some idea with what he would do, what allies he might have. Damianus had…Caesar’s Legion. And that was all. He shook his head. “I was always going to die for Caesar, one way or the other. It may as well be now.”

“Then why?” Marius held out his hands. “Why the hell did you ever stick your neck out for me? You’ve only made everything harder for yourself, with me being…A traitor.” He sighed, aware Damianus had caught the stumble in words, and gave in to add, “And a complete pain in the ass.”

He almost laughed, realizing how mutual the feeling was. “I told you. You didn’t deserve to die for being scared,” Damianus said. He managed to look Marius in the eye for a second, away. “I’m sorry I made it worse, not…not just talking to you, telling you things. And whatever else I did to make you think I’d…” He shrugged, one-sided. “I’m just…sorry. You don’t have to follow me.”

“You’re scared, too,” Marius said, quietly. “And you’ve got nowhere else. No _one_ else, but to...” He waved a hand towards Cottonwood.

It was a long moment before Damianus nodded.

“You don’t deserve to die for being scared, either.”

The words were soft, even gentle, but Damianus still felt he had to brace himself. All he had ever wanted from Marius was friendship…and this was what it had taken to find it.

So _this_ was what it felt like to be gutted.

But at last, he managed to compose himself and find his voice. “This didn’t happen because I was afraid. This is my duty. It doesn’t matter if I fear it.”

Marius closed his eyes a moment, before hiking his pack up and starting to walk. “Okay.”

Damianus stayed where he was, too stunned to move, and jogged to catch up after Marius passed him. “’Okay?’”

He was staring ahead, steadfast, as he walked. “We don’t know what’s going to happen, on the other side of that river. But maybe…” Marius managed to look him in the eye, and Damianus looked back, ready for an explanation, anything that helped all this make _sense._ “Maybe it won’t be so terrifying for us, knowing the other one is there.

“So you lead, and I’ll follow.”

Damianus realized he’d fallen behind, his heart beating like a hammer. He walked faster to catch up, and he fell in step beside him on the road to Cottonwood, and the Fort beyond.


End file.
